Smoke and Mirrors: A Day in the Life
by Shadsie
Summary: A WARPED little comedy. Cancerman has a bad day...


Shadowcat's Notes: This is...to put it mildly...bizarre. I got this idea out of nowhere at work one morning and decided to write it. This was written under the influence of sleep deprivation and was partly inspired by the May 9, 2000 edition of The Weekly World News. 

Categories: X-Files, Humor. 

"SMOKE AND MIRRORS: A DAY IN THE LIFE" 

I know that on a morning when I wake up and can't have my morning smoke, that it's going to be a bad day. 

The first thing I do when I crawl out from under my covers is to go to go to my dresser and reach for my pack of Morleys. I always store them in the top shelf of the dresser, even when staying at hotels. Problem was, I had forgotten that I had smoked the last cigarette of the pack at last night's Meeting and was greeted with an empty little cardboard carton, which I had somehow forgotten to throw away. 

I rummaged through the top dresser-drawer, hoping to find an extra pack I might have stored there, desperate in my craving. Finally, I felt something small, hard, and lightweight, and gently ran my fingers down its edges. A cigarette pack! I pulled it out from beneath a pile of rolled up white socks to find... 

CAMELS? 

I HATE Camels, in fact, I can't stand to smoke any brand other than Morley. Morley...just has a better flavor, I guess. I tried the brand when I was a young man in the Army. I never went back to any other. How did a pack of Camels wind up in my dresser-drawer anyway? 

Assuming that the last occupant of my hotel suite left them, I laid the offending package back in the sock drawer. My physical craving for nicotine was immense, but I would never resort to smoking *bleeping* Camels. 

I will tell you a little something; I do not like to use expletives when unnecessary. I've lied, hidden the Truth from the American People and the world, sent people to face torturous experiments for the Cause, and have personally assassinated many men, but I always use proper language. 

I steeped into the main bath and glanced at my reflection in the vanity mirror. I ran the fingers of my right hand over my chin, surmising that I could hold off having to shave for another day. 

I noticed something else, too, just how aged my face looked. The wrinkles circling my eyes looked a little deeper than usual and my brow a little more furrowed. 

From recent worry, I concluded. The last few Meetings of the Syndicate had been very tense. It was getting difficult to hide the identities of certain members and helpers of our group from a certain Mr. Skinner. He would soon learn who they were and leak them to that fool, Mulder, who may prove to be the undoing of all our hard work. 

In addition, some high level members of the United States Military had caught wind of the Tunisia Project, not much wind, but enough to make them wonder what some of their "special funding" was going into. 

If we played things right-and the Syndicate always plays things right-those imbeciles would never find everything out. If they did, it would be far too late for anyone to stop the Plans. Society would go on in ignorant bliss as it always has and always should. 

My lips curled into a most peculiar expression for me, a smile. 

Then I noticed how yellow my teeth were. 

Years of smoking left their stains, no matter how much "whitening" toothpaste I use; I can never get rid of them all. I've thought about quitting, people call them "coffin nails" but I've long considered cigarettes the least of the dangers in my life. Members of the Syndicate know me most by my habit; it is my trademark, almost an integral part of who I am. 

I donned my usual black suit and tie with black slacks and shined shoes. Black...it seems like I always wear black, reflecting the darkness within my heart, some might say, and while I believe that I always have the best interests for Humanity in mind, I know that I am filled with "blackness". 

Such a suit was most unusual for a simple trip down to the nearest corner-grocery, but it made me feel important. When you dress well, people take notice. I usually wish no one to notice me, but the passerby would assume that I was just some important businessman or a Congressman. D.C. is great. 

"What do you mean you don't have Morleys?" I said to the pasty-faced young clerk at Davis and Delilah's Corner Food and Drug. 

"We don't carry that brand, sir. I'm sorry. We do have Camels, if you would like a pack of those." 

*Bleep!* 

My eyes wandered over to the newsstand and my gaze caught something that left me horror-stricken. 

"How much for this paper, boy?" 

"$ 1.59, sir. But you don't look like a person who would read something like that. I get myself a copy on occasion for a good laugh, but I can't believe there are actually idiots out there that believe some of that baloney." 

"Just take my money and give me the *bleeping* paper." 

"Alright! No need to be rude about it! Geez!" 

It was a "rag sheet", one of those ridiculous tabloids about psychic hotlines, sightings of Bigfoot, people finding images of the Virgin Mary in their bowls of oatmeal, that kind of trash. This time, the reporters had apparently gotten in on one of the Syndicate's secret plans. Some weasel got in and taken unauthorized photographs, for the 8X10 photo and large-font headline was staring at me from the paper's cover in shining black-and-white. 

"SPACE ALIEN BACKS BUSH FOR PRESIDENT!" 

One of our Gray friends had scheduled a secret meeting with Candidate Bush. He was one of the Annunaki race that we have been working with, we usually simply refer to them as the "Grays". Few outside the Syndicate know of them or of our human-hybridization "deal" with them. We have reveled their existence to a few presidential candidates in exchange for the passing of legislation favorable to our plans. Candidates who are treated to these meetings have always won the office, I made sure of that, just as I made sure and would continue to make sure that the Bills never won the Super Bull while I drew breath. 

Back in 1992, the same tabloid ran a story about a space alien supporting Clinton. That was a hoax, but the photograph on this cover was definitely our guy. As I walked out of the corner-store, I tore through the pages of the paper until I found the article. 

I breathed a small sigh of relief when I read the story. You can always depend upon fools to not get their facts straight. Still, the photo was incriminating. I had to call an emergency Meeting. 

"Gentlemen, I assume you have seen this article?" 

"Yes, yes, very grave. Someone's bound to find out the veracity of the photograph eventually." That was Bill speaking, he always kept his fingernails well trimmed, his trademark, like my habit. 

"Not necessarily, if we get our people in the right places, the public will see it as a hoax. The majority of sane America already sees it as such already." 

"I think we need to speak with our Gray friend concerning this." 

"And I shall dispatch Krychek. We will find this weasel photographer and be sure that he has not taken any more wonderful snapshots to be made public spectacle and that he never lifts a lens again." 

Just then, my man Alexander Krychek walked into our D.C. Base office. 

"Why, Alex," I said, "We were just talking about you. Come in, sit down. We have a special job for you." 

"That's just what I wanted to speak with you about, kind sirs. I'm quitting!" 

"Quitting?" I wheezed, choking on the smoke of my cigarette (bleeping Camel, never as smooth as a Morley) "You can't quit!" 

"Like Hell I can't!" the little rat replied. "I'm sick of playing the 'faithful little assassin' for you! I've just signed a deal with a South American drug cartel, they offered me better pay than the scraps you throw me." 

"But we are serving Humanity." 

"To Hell with Humanity! To Hell with your precious little alien-conspiracy Syndicate! I'm off to make big bucks!" 

"You will never set foot out of that door, young fool," I said raising the small handgun I always carried at my hip, my cohorts doing the same. 

"Ha! Like you really have anymore secrets to keep anyway! Our Gray friend has gone Hollywood! Turn on the TV!" 

Bill turned on the small office set. Our Gray friend was holding a press conference on the evening news! Standing next to him were...FBI Agents Fox Mulder and his partner, Dana Scully. 

"America, we have conclusive proof of the existence of extraterrestrial life and the fact that men in our government have been hiding it for decades..." 

"Turn that blather off." I snorted. 

I let Krychek leave quietly, and the Syndicate began pondering plans on how to cover our tracks and undo the damage that had been done. 

I am now writing this, Diary, because I have no secrets to keep any longer. I have never kept a Diary until now, fearing that it would fall into the wrong hands. Now, I must keep one, I must write some record of my thoughts in order to justify my actions, if my location is ever found. 

Ha! Fools! The so-called "authorities" will never find me, no one will! 

I hope. I suppose I could always fake my own death again. 

~Just a Cigarette Smoking Man~ 

I know, this was probably a REALLY LAME excuse for a story, but I've seen worse out there in fanfic land. I warned you in my beginning notes that it was going to be bizarre. On further note, I do not endorse any particular political candidate, that decision will be left up to you voters at the polls. I really do need to get more sleep. 

Shadowcat the Surrealist, 2000 


End file.
